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"I'm fine," she reassured him.
"Are you certain? I know there are a number of people waiting to see you, but I'll do my best to put them off if you'd like."
She wanted to tie a bow around him and put him under her Christmas tree. Her internal radar wasn't sending out any warning signals telling her to vamp him, something that generally happened when she was around good-looking men. His small stature and friendly manner were keeping her from feeling threatened.
She lowered her voice so only he could hear. "Why don't
you just stick by my side instead? I have a feeling I'm going to need a friendly face."
"I'll be happy to." They exchanged smiles and she had a comforting sense of connection with him, as if they'd known each other for years.
He led her through an archway into a den of offices decorated with commemorative footballs, pennants, and team cups stuffed with pencils. As they passed through, he introduced her to a number of men, most of whom wore blue polo shirts bearing the Stars' logo and all of whom seemed to have titles: director, manager, assistant.
Unlike his more casually dressed coworkers, her new ally wore a pin-striped charcoal suit, starched white shirt with French cuffs, burgundy rep tie, and polished cordovan wing tips.
"You haven't told me your name."
"Gosh." He slapped his forehead with the heel of his hand and grinned, producing a charming set of dimples. "I've been so nervous about meeting you I forgot. I'm Ron McDermitt, Miss Somerville."
"Please, Ron, call me Phoebe."
"I'd be honored."
They walked through a busy area of staff desks separated by partitions, then turned the corner into the longer back wing of the building. It was decorated as unimaginatively as the lobby: blue carpet, white walls covered with photographs, and team posters in simple chrome frames.
He glanced at his watch and frowned. "We're due in Steve Kovak's office now. He's the director of player personnel, and he wants to get the contracts signed as soon as possible."
"Coach Calebow made these contracts sound like life and death."
"They are, Phoebe. For the Stars, anyway." He stopped in front of a door that bore a small brass placard announcing it as the office of the director of player personnel. "Last season, this team had one of the worst records in the league. The fans have deserted us, and we've been playing in a stadium that's barely half-full. If we lose Bobby Tom Denton, there'll be even more empty seats."
"You're telling me I'd better sign or else."
"Oh, no. You're the owner. I can advise you, but it's your team, and you make the final decision."
He spoke so earnestly that she wanted to throw her arms around him and give him a big smacker right on his cute little mouth. Instead, she walked through the door he had opened for her.
Steve Kovak was a weathered veteran of decades of gridiron warfare. Dressed in his shirtsleeves, he had thinning brown hair, a lantern jaw, and a ruddy complexion. Phoebe found him thoroughly terrifying, and as they were introduced, she wished she weren't wearing slacks.
Since she couldn't flash her legs, she let her jacket fall open as she took a seat across from his desk. "I understand I need to sign some contracts."
"Affirmative." He pulled his eyes away from her breasts and pushed a sheaf of papers toward her. She extracted a pair of reading glasses with leopard-spotted frames from her purse and slipped them on.
The door opened behind her and she tensed. She didn't need to turn her head to know who had come in; there was something in the air. Perhaps it was the subtle citrus scent she had noticed when he had been in her apartment, perhaps simply the atmospheric turbulence of excessive macho. The idea that she still remembered what he smelled like scared her, and she let her jacket fall open a bit farther.
"Real glad to see you could make it, Miz Somerville." A distinct edge of sarcasm undercut his Alabama drawl. Until now, she'd never found Southern accents particularly attractive, but she was forced to admit there was definitely something seductive about those elongated vowels.
She kept her eyes on the papers she was studying. "Make nice, Mr. Calebow, or I'll sic Pooh on you." Before he could respond, her head shot up from Bobby Tom Demon's contact. "Eight million dollars? You're giving this man $8 million dollars to catch a football! I thought this team was in financial trouble?"
Dan leaned against the wall to her left, crossed his arms and tucked his fingers under the armpits of the blue Stars' polo shirt he wore with a pair of gray slacks. "Good wide-outs don't come cheap. You'll notice that's for four years."
She was still trying to get her breath back. "This is an obscene amount of money."
"He's worth every penny," Steve Kovak retorted. "Your father approved this contract, by the way."
"Before or after he died?"
Dan smiled. Instinctively, Phoebe looked over at the only man in the room she trusted for confirmation that her father had, indeed, known about this outrageous contract. Ron nodded.
